Kill Me Now

by Timmy Reed

  Kari's father picked us up in his Mercedes SUV and that made me feel nervous. I hate meeting parents. I'd hoped that Gary would've had Stan the Russian pick us up. I had money for it. My mom had slipped me three twenties when she heard I was going out to dinner with friends. With a girl even! She was ecstatic.

  When I hopped in the back seat, Kari's dad tried to tell me a joke. “Two elephants are sitting in a bathtub,” he said. “One turns to the other and asks for the soap. The other elephant says, 'No soap. Radio.'” I just smiled. I didn't get it. I don't think there was anything to get. I think that's the point. To make me feel stupid.

  “Dad, you're embarrassing me,” Kari groaned. “No one wants to hear your dumb joke . . . He tells it to everyone,” she explained to the rest of us. “It doesn't make any sense. It's not supposed too. He tries to make strangers feel stupid.”

  After that awkward moment, everyone was pretty quiet for the rest of the ride, except for Kari's father who kept making jokes about the four of us eloping to Atlantic City, and Kari who kept whining for him to shut up. I sat next to Amy and could feel the shape of her hip against my bony thigh, but we didn't make eye contact even once. When I first sat down we both said “Hi.” But we were staring at the back of the headrest when we said it.

  At the restaurant, Kari looked way hot. Amy has a pretty face, but sort of plain, and she's a little pudgy. Not that I cared either way. I'm just saying is all, for the record. The girls were dressed almost identically: tight black pants, chunky heels, and halter tops, with their hair held up in ribbons. Like a uniform, I guess.

  By the time we sat down, my grundle was already starting to sweat. I was nervous. I had a few phenobarbital in my pocket. I was already thinking about taking one. I would've offered them to the table, but I wasn't sure how it would go over. You can never tell with girls like that. Some of them are pro-booze, anti-drug. And some of them think you should wait until high school before you start eating pills. Or college even. It's weird.

  Our waitress came dressed in a candy-striped shirt and snap-on suspenders that were all decked out in cheesy buttons. Strictly cornball stuff like, “smile a while,” and “mean people suck,” and “don't bother me i'm crabby.” After she left, an awkward hush fell over the table. Kari unfolded her napkin and tried to break the ice. Looking right at me, she asked, “So, what happened to your face?”

  I froze up. I hadn't thought that far ahead. “Oh, I, ah, cut myself,” I said, trying to think up a lie. “Jumping over a fence.” I thought that sounded pretty reasonable and I didn't know what else to say. I still hadn't even looked at Amy, but I thought I could feel her eyes on my cheek. They weren't reassuring.

  Kari didn't miss a beat. “Why were you jumping over a fence?”

  I mumbled something about the skate park being closed.

  “You skateboard?” she asked. “Are you sponsored?”

  “Yeah,” I said, staring down at my chest. “By my mom.”

  Everyone laughed. Things felt a little more comfortable after that. I looked over at Amy and smiled. She smiled back. Our waitress returned with sodas and finger food: jalapeño poppers, mozzarella sticks, and chicken fingers. It all looked pretty much the same. Amy mentioned something about a party later in the week at Marissa Guidera's house.

  “Her parents are out of town,” she said. “Her sister's making Jell-O shots. I think. All the seniors will be there.”

  “I hate Marissa,” Kari said. “I heard her sister had, like, three abortions.”

  “But you're still going, aren't you?” Gary asked.

  “Of course. Do you think there'll be a list?”

  “Fuck a list,” Gary scoffed. I pretended to laugh.

  “Are you going, Miles?” Amy asked me.

  “Call him 'Retard,'” Gary corrected. “That's his name.”

  “Gary!” Kari slapped him on the shoulder.

  “What? That's his name. He likes it.”

  I just sort of shrugged, chuckling.

  “Well,” Kari asked. “Are you going?”

  I doubted very much that I would be on any list if there was one. “Maybe,” I said. “I'll probably go. I don't know.”

  “Does Marissa have a pool?” Gary wanted to know. It took almost fifteen minutes for the girls to decide.

  After dinner—the girls had salads, the boys had steak, only I could barely keep mine down—the four of us walked over to the movie theater. While they were getting popcorn I excused myself to the men's room and took two pills. They kicked in by the end of the previews and I nearly fell asleep during the movie, which was some stupid chick film about a group of ordinary suburban girls who wanted to be princesses and then found out that they actually were princesses, but in another dimension or something. Kari and Gary made out during the second half of the movie and I just sat there next to Amy, not even holding her hand. I couldn't tell whether I should make a move or not. I was scared. All I really wanted to do was get home and smoke a blunt. Chicks can be pretty awkward when they're not wasted, I guess. Or maybe it's just me. I can be pretty awkward.

  ~

  Thomas Angel has started sleeping with me at night whenever I stay at my mom's. My sisters are jealous because they each want him in their bed at night. I could care less where the cat sleeps. He is kind of warm though and that's nice. He rubs up against my face in the mornings and does a little dance on my chest. I like having him curled up next to me okay, but sometimes his breath smells like dead things.

  ~

  Do you know what I always HATED about school, besides everything? Scratch that. Let me start over. Do you know who I always hated? Besides all the teachers and coaches . . . I always hated the ooooooh-aaaawww kids. You know the ones. All those dickheads who go ooooooh or aaaawww whenever anyone gets in trouble. You step the slightest bit out of line and you get an immediate chorus of moans. There they are, smirking and grinning. Or covering their mouths. It's disgusting. For as long as I can remember I've made it a point not to be a part of that crowd. I'm usually the one getting ooooooh'd at. It's always been like that.

  The funny thing is, douchebags like that desperately need kids like me. It gives them an excuse to gloat and make a lot of noise. If nobody talks back to the teacher, a whole room full of jerks are stuck with their thumb in their butt, waiting for the bell to ring. Hanging on the edge of their seats, ready to pounce in case somebody farts or raises their hand the wrong way. I used to get ooooooh'd sometimes when I wasn't even trying to be disrespectful. Just for asking what I thought was a pretty reasonable question about whatever bullshit topic was at hand. Then, if you turn around and give those bastards the finger, you get put out by the teacher. And the ooooooh's rise even higher. It's a vicious fucking circle. I've never

  wanted any part of it.

  Another thing I always hated: when the kids at school, and it's usually the same kind of kids I already mentioned, when they catch you doing something and the teacher isn't around. They usually tell you something like, “You know you can't do that.” What they actually mean is: You are not ALLOWED to do that or What you are doing is AGAINST THE RULES. I've already mentioned how literal I used to be about everything. Well this pet peeve is a holdout. I wish people would just keep their mouths shut. I CAN do whatever I want. Within the realm of human capability, that is. I mean I can't fly or shoot lasers out my eyes or anything gnarly and superhuman like that, but if I want to grab an extra rice pudding at the lunch line or forge a hall pass or whatever, then I'm gonna fucking do it. I may get a stern lecture or sent for a time-out or end up being aaaawww'd by a room full of assholes, but I CAN do it. I mean, it is physically possible to steal pudding. School rules aren't exactly the laws of gravity, you know.

  ~

  The rain is coming down in buckets and I'm feeling pretty crummy. I can't skate and I'm sick of all my video games. They've been feeling more and more like a waste of time lately. Not that
I have anything better to do. TV sucks at the moment and I've seen all the good movies at the store. There's nothing to do. Nada. So I call the Beaster Bunny, hoping he's picked up the nuggets he promised to spot me the last time we talked . . . He has!!! But he says he won't drive them over. When I ask him why, all he tells me is he doesn't feel like it. So I suit up for the rain.

  I'm wearing my dad's old poncho from the seventies, which is covered in patches and stains, but it's the only suitably waterproof thing I own, except for my puffy-ass winter ski jacket and it's like ninety degrees outside, so that is way the fuck out of the picture. Since I don't want to get my shoes all waterlogged, I hop on my bike in bare feet. I start pedaling over to Robby's folks' house with thoughts of good herb on the brain. Robby agreed to spot me a half-ounce on the condition that I get rid of it by the end of the week. That's three days from now.

  I can't see anything and by the time I'm out of my mom's neighborhood, Dad's poncho has already soaked through completely. My T-shirt is sticking to my skin. The water is rising around the base of my wheels, my feet. I wonder if the cicadas can swim. And what about the moles . . . As I'm crossing Northern Parkway, somebody leans on their horn. I stop my bike and flip them the bird, but their taillights have already disappeared in the storm. A minute later, as I'm cutting through Homeland, my tires skid out and I slide across the pavement. I land in a puddle. The entire inside of my leg is covered in a nasty concrete rash and I think the toenail on my big toe is coming off. There's a lot of blood. I sit in the road a few a seconds, feeling dirty and wet. Water runs past my ass cheeks, rushes right through my lax shorts. I cuss at myself. Cuss at the weather. The world . . . Sometimes I feel so low I could sit on a deck of cards and dangle my legs over the side . . . I get up and keep riding. You gotta keep forever going. If only because there's nothing else to do.

  When I get to Robby's front door, he has somebody over, the pot-man I guess, and he won't let me in. He says I'm too wet. And bloody. Whatever, Robby. I wait outside for him to weigh the shit out and triple-bag it against the rain. It's really coming down now. I tell myself I won't thank him when he hands me the bag. But I do anyway. All the way home, I hate myself for it.

  I ditch my bike in the garage and run upstairs, where I pinch a gram or so from the bag. I wrap it in cigarette cellophane and stow it in the cushions on my futon. I'm about to change my clothes before I head back out, but I realize they'll just get soaked anyway. I dash across the street in the rain. When I get to the old man's front door, I must look a complete mess. I ring the bell.

  It takes a little while for him to answer the door, but I can hear him moving around in there. Bad joints, I figure. Unless he's hiding something . . .

  When he finally opens up, I'm a little taken aback. He's wearing a set of old-timey pajamas. Like a dress, with a stocking cap and everything . . . He looks pretty surprised, too. I guess he wasn't expecting company. Not to mention someone as waterlogged and bloody as I am. But he lets me in anyway and scurries off somewhere to get me a towel, even though I tell him not to bother.

  While I'm waiting in the front hall, I take the chance to scope out his decor. The front hall is laid out exactly the same as our front hall, except for the pictures. All over the walls, even way up high where he must have needed a ladder to get to, are rows and rows of framed posters and photographs, mostly black and white. It's pretty sweet actually. All we have is a lot of white space and few strategically placed prints of ducks and flowers and nautical maps and shit. You can tell Mister Reese didn't hire a decorator, like my mother always does. For some reason that seems pretty cool to me.

  Mister Reese comes back down with a towel, plus gauze pads, tape, and peroxide for my legs. He shows me the first floor powder room, even though I already know where it is because our house has the exact same one. I thank him, shut the door behind me, flick on the lights. Wow. Clowns. Everywhere. Even a big poster on the ceiling. Like I'm in a nursery or something. It kinda-sorta freaks me out. I'm already thinking John Wayne Gacy or something. I clean up and dry off. I get some of my blood on the towel and feel bad. I hide it under the sink. I nervously picture the old man waiting outside with his ear to the door. I try not to wince when I clean out my big toe, which is starting to hurt pretty bad. I don't want him to hear me.

  We go upstairs to his living room. More of the same. Pictures, I mean. Lots of them. And posters. And clowns. Plus all this random shit, like a mini totem pole and a samurai sword and a two-headed baby shark floating in a jar. And NO TELEVISION, I notice, at least not in the main hangout room . . . Mister Reese sits down in front of a coffee table, where there's a tray of milk and cookies set up. He must've been eating them when I rang the doorbell. A silence passes between us and I feel awkward. I wonder who's gonna make the first stab at small talk. I break first. I ask him for a cookie. He waves his hand over the tray like “Hey, help yourself, man” so I snatch one up and dunk it in the milk, but I'm kind of careless and my fingertips end up dipping slightly into his milk along with my cookie. I can't tell if he notices but I feel bad anyway. I look around for a distraction or a change of subject. I ask him about the pictures.

  “Anarchists,” he says. “Anarchists, clowns, magicians, musicians, monsters, and movie stars mostly.”

  I don't know what to say. All I can think of is, “Rad.”

  ~

  How far can a boy get on two hundred dollars? To Florida and then the Caribbean Sea? I guess not. Whenever I dream of running away it always strikes me as impossible. If only I lived back in the day when you could hop a freight train or a tramp steamer and set out into a world of opportunity. Even hitchhiking is supposedly illegal nowadays. Besides, I'm not into giving blow jobs.

  One day I'll run off to the woods or an island. I'm sure of it. And things will be better there. I'll bounce through the trees like a naked ape, callous to insect bites and small wounds. Nature Boy they'll call me. And I'll be free . . . But for now I guess I better pay Robby back. And get him to spot me another half oz. Maybe a whole one this time . . .

  ~

  Sometimes after my mother goes to bed, I come and tuck her in for the night. I leave a glass of water by her bedside or turn on the fan to deal with her hot flashes. Shit like that. Sometimes she wakes up and asks me to rub her feet. Her dogs are constantly sore from work. They are heavily calloused and kind of gross. I massage them even though I don't want to. I feel bad for her I guess. Once in a while I'll be standing by her bedside in the dark, giving those sore dogs a rubdown, and it will make me think of Jesus. You know, washing Simon Peter's feet. I don't know why, but that makes me feel better about myself.

  I still wash my hands afterward though. Feet are gross.

  ~

  I run into Mister Reese as he is going for one of his walks around the neighborhood. I join him and we get to talking and somehow it comes out how much I hate my sisters. “You don't hate them,” he tells me.

  “Yes. I do. They suck.”

  “Life is too short to spend on hate, kid.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “You don't even know how to hate yet. You're too young. When you learn to hate, you'll know it. And you'll want to forget.”

  “But I get so pissed at them sometimes . . .”

  “Well, that'll happen. With lots of people. Let it pass. They're just like you probably. At least some part of them is.”

  “But what about my dad? He sucks too.”

  “You don't hate him either, I bet. Hate is a strong feeling to have. Hate is absolute. Impenetrable. At least while it lasts.”

  “I guess you're right.”

  I sighed and kicked a pebble out in front of me.

  Usually I hate being wrong, but this time it felt okay.

  ~

  So . . . I spend yesterday afternoon tooling around on Jon's go-kart with him and Gary. Then we get picked up by Devin French and Anthony Kalista, sophomores at Jon an
d Gary's school. We're headed to Marissa Guidera's house party. The sophomores insist on getting high first and since I'm the only one holding anything, the burden falls on me. We smoke the last of my pot—the gram and a half I pinched from Mister Reese's bag—in the car on the way to the party.

  When we get to Marissa's backyard—there is a swimming pool, even though nobody's in it—I find myself surrounded by a lot of people I don't know or barely know or only know by name. Jon and Gary spend half the night being initiated via beer bong by a group of incoming seniors who wear their resort-colored polo shirts with the collars turned up. They leave me out of it because I go to a different school than them, I guess. Thank god . . . People keep rubbing me on the top of my head. People keep asking me about my little sisters. It gets annoying. Joan Batton, whose older brother is now a famous reality show douchebag in Hollywood, gives me a big wet kiss directly on my winespot when she sees me. Our parents are friends and she is piss drunk and holding a beer bong, but still it was kind of nice . . . By midnight, Gary and Kari have gotten in a fight and Jon has already made out with three girls, including Amy. I don't care though. I never even try to talk to her. I only hug her for a second and she pecks me on the cheek when we first get there and then we don't speak for the rest of the night and it feels weird.

  I end up shitfaced and hanging around the outskirts of the party until I come across a game of Truth or Dare that's going on near the deep end of the pool. I sit down on the patio and slide myself into the circle. Even though I kind of know or at least used to know a few of the people in the game, nobody ever calls on me. When it's finally my turn to ask truth or dare? I turn to Tracy Cottle and find myself asking a two-part question. “Part one,” I say. “Toilet paper: Crumple or Fold?”

  Tracy blushes a little. “Crumple,” she says. “I guess. I don't know.” She puts her face in her hands and says, “Oh my god.”

  “Part two. Front-Wipe or Back?”

  “I don't know,” she squeaks. “You are gross.”